


called your name til the fever broke

by DrowningInStarlight



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: 91 sure was an eppysode, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningInStarlight/pseuds/DrowningInStarlight
Summary: “Who the fuck are you and why did you steal my watch?” are the first words that William's true love ever speaks to him.
Relationships: Margaret & Sweet, Margaret/Travis Matagot, The Forest Queen & Travis Matagot
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	called your name til the fever broke

**Author's Note:**

> changelily,, i care you,, 
> 
> this one's dedicated to liam but he wont get an ao3 so. gifted to you in spirit (the spirit of giving you emotions)
> 
> title from in the woods somewhere by hozier!

“Who the fuck are you and why did you steal my watch?” are the first words that William's true love ever speaks to him. 

He freezes in the alley, hand halfway into his pocket. The tavern had been busy, he didn't think that anyone had noticed the way that he'd _accidentally_ bumped into various of the clientele on his way out. A drunken stumble is hardly unusual, no one ever notices until it's far too late. 

There's a sound that makes his heart go cold— he'll outgrow that habit, but William is still young, and death is still enough to turn his blood to something like ice. The person standing behind him cocks a gun. He quickly runs through his options. There's no way out of this alley, and dusk is setting in fast— the walls are too high to climb, there's no cover. He knows when he is beaten. He turns, ever so slowly, and raises his hands. 

“No need for violence,” he says airily. “I'm sure there's been a mistake.” 

The woman raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are dark and sardonic. “Oh, you accidentally stole my watch?” 

“Maybe I did,” he says, taking a step forward, as subtly as he can. “If you know what I mean.” If he can get close enough to the entrance of the alley, he can run. Once darkness falls, she won't be able to find him. It'll all be fine. 

She sees his little halfstep, and takes a step forward of her own. “Give me my watch back,” she says, putting the cold metal of the gun to his throat, “And we can come to an arrangement. Try anything else, and I'll kill you where you stand.” 

William has lived through the end of the world. He knows how to read people. He's _good_ at reading people. There is nothing but steel in this woman's eyes. 

He knows when to give in. He'll give in again, and again, and again— but we haven't got there quite yet. He takes his array of watches out of his pocket and displays them to her. “Take your pick,” he tells her. She keeps her gun to his throat and her eyes locked on his, but she reaches out to take a silver watch, old and plain except for the engraving on the face. 

It's a lily, floating on a river's current, but we haven't got there yet, either. 

“Thank you,” she says, nodding to him, and lowering her gun at last. “It has sentimental value.” 

“Heirloom?” he asks, for no real reason other than people are less likely to shoot you if you're having a conversation. 

“No,” she says thoughtfully, putting it back round her wrist. “I just like it.”

“Well, there you have it, all safe and sound, courtesy of me,” he says, and she snorts. 

“Do this for a living, do you? Petty theft after dark?” 

“I can assure you,” he says, “All my petty theft takes place firmly in the daytime.”

“Well, no offense, but you aren't very good,” she says. “I spotted you immediately.” 

William knows that isn't true. He's very good. He's spent every year since he was ten years old improving. But she doesn't sound like she's just trash talking. The thought occurs to him that if she spotted him so easily, this woman must be very good at what she does, and that what she does probably isn't far away from what _he_ does. 

He doesn't ask. He just edges round her cautiously and walks away, not feeling the thread unspooling between them, tangling in their hair, a whisper of possibility. This isn't predestined. There are no rules anymore. The Slain God is dead, and fate died with him— but love did not. 

“Wait,” she says. “What's your name?” 

A hundred names trip to mind, but the word he breathes is William. 

— 

Wherever they go, they follow the chaos of this new, broken world, or maybe they bring the chaos with them. Margaret swims in streams inland while William sits on the bank, watching or daydreaming or messing with his luminaries. William plays people at Illimat while Margaret steals everything that people are too distracted to be keeping an eye on. The cons they work are so simple, so seamless— William will feel like he's lost part of himself when he has to relearn them by himself. 

But we're still getting to that. 

“Hm,” Margaret says one day, as they're curled up warm in a rented room on the coldest day of the year. “William, my dear?”

William is a snake, coiled on the pillow beside her, and he's almost asleep. “Yes,” he says vaguely, eyes still closed.

“Will you marry me?”

He opens an eye. “Well, not right now,” he says. “I'm a snake. You might get some weird looks.”

She laughs. “This is a church town, I would probably get burnt at the stake or something.” 

“Not the ideal wedding party.” 

“Not at all.”

There's silence, warm and peaceful. Margaret turns over to look up at the ceiling. William watches her thinking. 

“It's just,” she carries on eventually, “I keep dreaming about a river.” 

Her voice is strange. A little distant. 

“A river?” William asks. He knows she has bad dreams. She's normally awake before he changes, nowadays, and they're both trying not to read too much into it. The world is a strange place. 

“Yes. It's not bad, exactly, it's just—” she sighs. “It's hard to put into words. I don't remember the dreams very well.” 

“You want to marry me because you keep dreaming about a river?” 

“No,” she says. “I want to marry you because I love you. The dreams are just…” she trails off. 

“Yes,” he says, because it suddenly feels very, very important that she knows it. “Yeah, sure. Whenever you want. Wherever you want.” 

“Not in animal form,” she promises. “No getting burnt at the stake.”

“Well, you never know,” William says, “They say don't knock it til you've tried it.” 

“I will knock it, thank you,” she says, and then rolls over to press her face into the pillow beside William. “I'm just… tired,” she confesses, muffled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.” 

— 

Sometimes, the Forest Queen calls William to the wood. He always goes, of course, and Margaret comes with him from time to time. The Queen likes her, he thinks— it's hard to tell. It's so hard to tell. The forest doesn't reject Margaret, but it welcomes her with the sickly sweetness that screams trap, one that neither of them know how to disarm. They bow together, holding hands, and the Forest Queen threads flowers in Margaret's hair then William's. He doesn't stop holding his breath until they're away again. 

This time, Margaret waits for him at the outskirts. The woods here border fields, neat wooden fences clearly telling William that he's left the Queen's domain. He's a coyote, and the morning dew is cold as he pads wearily through the grass. 

It doesn't take long for the sun to crest the trees, and then he's human again, mouth tasting of blood. He stumbles towards the gate into the field and climbs up on it to wait. The morning sun is weak, and he can't stop shivering. 

Margaret has a thick cloak on when she arrives, green trimmed with gray. She's carrying another one, which she drapes around his shoulders, smoothing her hand down his upper arm.

“Bad one?” she asks, when he tenses a little at the unexpected contact. 

He just nods, and she climbs up on the gate next to him. Eventually, he gently leans into her shoulder. 

Together, they watch the sun rise. 

— 

But all roads lead back to the river, one way or another. Margaret and William learn that the hard way, and then there's no such thing as Margaret-and-William anymore. It's just— 

— 

He washes up on the shore as a snake, and he stays there, limp. The riverbanks are barren, stones and thistles tossed together by the current. He doesn't move for a very long time. 

When daylight comes, he picks himself up painfully and begins to walk. He lost his shoes in the water. He doesn't cry. He doesn't do anything, except stare hollow eyed at the rushing water for any sign of— of— 

He's sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up to his chest when the Queen comes to him. He feels her before he sees her— the air changes texture, the birds suddenly change note. He doesn't look away from the river's current. 

“Are you ready to come home?” she asks him, her voice echoing with the weight of eternities in the ancient woods. He knew she'd come. She wouldn't like him starving himself to death on the edges of her forest over a dead mortal. Part of him deeply, bitterly resents that, and part of him that makes him feel red hot with shame had been counting on the fact she'd come and collect him.

It's so complicated, belonging. He'd never been very good at it. Margaret had understood, but now Margaret is gone. 

“No,” he says, and he hears the way it comes out like a stubborn child refusing to go to bed. 

“You will not find her,” the Queen says, moving closer behind him and putting light hands on his shoulders. It's not a threat, just a steady, unmoving statement of fact. She's always been unmoveable, the Lady in Green. 

“I'm not going to leave her,” he says. 

“Little William—” 

“Don't call me that.” He shrugs her hands off and gets up, turning to look at her for the first time with red eyes and shaking hands. “William drowned with—” he can't finish the sentence. She doesn't try to touch him again. 

“Very well, little one,” is all she says, patronising and indulgent in the way she specialises in. It's never grated on him more than it does now. She sweeps her wintery cloak around herself and begins to walk away, back towards the forest. 

He isn't proud of it, but he follows her anyway. 

— 

He thinks Gable can tell that something's changed, but they don't ask. Neither of them ask, that's the thing that binds them together. He hates them, but they understand. 

They aren't friends. Right up until he realises that somehow, they are. 

— 

Travis Matagot is a skyjack and a corsair. Travis Matagot no longer runs alone. William has been dead for over one hundred years, but Travis Matagot's heart still stops when he catches sight of someone who has the same hair, the same smile. “Margaret?” he calls, despite himself, and she looks up. Her eyes are just like… 

— 

Margaret sleeps better nowadays. Even after Nordia— if she's being honest with herself, _especially_ after Nordia. She departs the Goose once her work is done, and wanders through the lamplit streets until she finds the path out of town. The swamp is treacherous for many, but she is no ordinary traveller. Once she reaches the little cabin, she knocks politely, and waits. 

Sweet's expecting her, and he opens the door at once. “Margaret,” he says warmly, and they embrace right there on the doorstep. He steps back to let her in, and she smiles at him. He looks well, and much more at peace than when she'd last seen him, back when he was still parlouring in the city. She's glad. 

“Maestren Sweet,” she says, bowing with affectionate, teasing respect. “Thank you for welcoming me to your parlour.” 

He laughs. “My dearest teacher, I would never dream of turning you away. You must tell me what you've been up to these past years! Would you like tea?”

“Tea would be a delight," she says, and lets her smile turn a little sad as she says “It's quite a story, I'm afraid.”

Sweet nods fondly. “It wouldn't be you if it wasn't.” 

— 

She falls asleep easily once again in the warmth of Sweet’s cabin. 

— 

The sunrise is pale and gentle and the shallow water is warm. Margaret walks the riverbed with bare feet, and she feels completely, truly light for the first time since she left the Uhuru. 

“You're dreaming, my dearest,” Travis says, from behind her. She knows that she is. She turns to look, and there he is, sitting on the riverbank with his chin resting on his hand and a sardonic smile on his lips. 

“Never would have guessed,” she tells him. 

He gestures idly at the river, at the serene forest glade that it surrounds. “This isn't how _I_ remember it.” 

“Like you said, love. I'm dreaming.” 

“I'm glad you dream of this, now. Not— anything older.” There's such a deep sadness in his eyes, shot through with fondness. 

“Me too,” she says. There’s also a warm, familiar knowing, one that almost makes Margaret’s cheeks flush. That’s not something she encounters often. New and fun and delightful. “So, did you want something?” she asks brightly. “Or did you just show up in my dreams to have some fun?”

He flushes. “No, no. I just wanted to let you know— we'll be nearby. The Uhuru. And I don't know if you want to and you certainly don't _have_ to but if you wanted to— to talk— or…” 

He trails off, twisting his fingers nervously, like he’s itching for his cards. The moment she thinks about it, they appear next to him on the riverbank, but he doesn’t look away from her to see them. 

He looks like he genuinely expects that she might say no. As if that was _ever_ on the cards.

Because it's her dream, it only takes her two steps to reach him. “Yes,” she whispers, and for the first time in over a hundred years, Margaret kisses William.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [drowninginstarlights!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drowninginstarlights)


End file.
